Garry Shead’s avante-guard filmmaking techniques result in a stylish re-creation of the murder of three police officers at Stringybark, Victoria by Australian bush outlaw, Ned Kelly.

1960 Ned Kelly

ANOTHER ONE WITHOUT PICTURES? WHAT GOES?

Director: Tim Burstall

This superbly crafted short film explores the legend of Australian bushranger, Ned Kelly, through the modernist paintings of internationally acclaimed Australian artist Sidney Nolanand an accompanying bush ballad.

Remember where they hanged me? Yep; the Melbourne Goal (that word means Jail to you people from New York City).

Well the books and movies carried my story forward until 1929. That is when it started taking a twist.

It seems as though some new construction was needed at the Old Melbourne Goal, jail or whatever. While they were digging around they found several of us duly executed fellows. They seemed to think that I was among them. That sure got the imaginations working overtime. It had been a while since Kellymania had been invoked.

I had been staying there for the last 49 years. You would think that they would respect a man’s castle. But no. They moved me to Pentridge Prison.

It was not that far away but it wasn’t home. I missed the sounds; the trap doors dropping, the ropes snapping, it made Friday mornings memorable. That is when they hung the new inmates.

But things do not always go as planned. Our graves were opened, the gawkers gawked, and neighborhood boys scrambled to get a souvenir. I was beside myself and lost my head.

No, I really mean it, I think that is when I lost my head. Some young fellow probably had it tucked beneath his arm as scrimmaged with the guards; – – – if there were any.

Well things were not much better at Pentridge Prison. Nobody knew where we were located. Maps said one thing – – – excavations another. New technologies allowed the archaeologists to discover another new mass grave.

They had finally found me! They checked my DNA. And then they were ecstatic over what they called a “mitochondrial match.”

Then, surprisingly, some guy walks in to the authorities with a head he claimed was mine. It wasn’t really a head. It was just a skull. However the DNA was not a match.

If only I could have read Rudyard Kiplings poem “IF.” He mentioned me in it:

“IF you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,”

then maybe, just maybe, I could catch the eye of some young lady here at VIFM.

One the other hand I am not sure I would really like that. Most of them are just a bag of bones.

All that work was done by the VIFM. You remember who those guys were – – – don’t you?

Right! The Victoria Institute of Forensic Medicine.

So now the stories start recreating themselves all over again.

More books, more movies, magazines, radio shows, telly-news; all for what good purpose?

Nothing more than to make me look better than I really was – – – or worse.

Thank God somebody put together the stories about the Irish-Australians before it became any more twisted.

I survived to stand trial and was charged with the murder of Sergeant Kennedy, Constable Scanlan and Lonigan. Of course they overlooked a few and I was not about to brag about them; no matter how much I wanted to. They threw in the murder of Aaron Sherritt even though they knew I didn’t pull the trigger.

With all the evidence and witnesses to murder I thought they may overlook the bank robberies. But no – – – they were still somewhat miffed about Glenrowwan. So they threw everything they could at me including a pile of minor charges.

Prison food wasn’t all that bad.

You can see in this sketch that I had a little more meat on my bones than I do now.

I was sentenced to death by hanging by Irish-born Lord Justice Redmond Barry.

Several rather heated exchanges between me and the judge took place during the trial.

Finally, after sentencing the Judge, who thought he was better than me, said “May God have mercy on your soul.”

I answered “I will go a little further than that, and say I will see you there when I go.”

I just didn’t realize it would be so soon.

They hung me on 11 November 1880 at the Melbourne Gaol.

The good judge died a week or so later; 23 November.

I would rather not dwell on this part of my story so come back for the best part.

I had made a plan to rob all of the banks of Benalla. However, we had to do something about the police headquarters that was located there. There were just too many policemen and aboriginal trackers for us to take on at their headquarters in Benalla.

They were a little miffed about what had happed to Aaron Sherritt and had a sense that we were on the move again. This would work to our advantage.

The only solution was to kill or capture the entire Benalla police. Our plan was to lure the police to Glenrowan by creating a diversion. If we could create a big enough stir we knew they would show up by taking the railroad from Benalla to Glenrowan. There were just too many of them to get there by horseback; seems as though somebody took a lot of their horses.

After shooting Sherritt we rode to Glenrowan. Our plan was to wreck any special police train sent after us. We reached our destination on Sunday. I remember the date because it was the day before the big shootout; 27 June 1880. We immediately took over the town. It wasn’t very hard; we had plenty of practice at subduing whole towns.

Once we had everyone under control we were able to identify which ones were the railroad workers. We got them and a few able bodied men to damage the railroad track. They were a little hesitant at first but a revolver stuck in an ear quickly convinced them otherwise.

The idea was to damage the track at a turn near the town. That way the engineer would not see the damage until it was too late. We lifted the both rails just a bit. Then the ties were taken out. When the heavy engine hit the damage it would slide off to one side or the other and we would have our fun with the police and the trackers.

Between the time it took to capture the town and damage the track it was late at night. We put all fifty hostages in the hotel. Well we thought we put them all in the hotel. One had escaped. He was the schoolmaster Tom Curnow. Some people say I let him go but why would I do such a stupid thing. So just to keep the record straight I will repeat; “He escaped.”

So here is where things started going a little wrong. Schoolmaster Curnow knew we had damaged the tracks in order to shoot whatever policemen may have escaped the train wreck.

He heard the train coming and ran down the track with a lantern to warn them. It was three in the morning when all those policemen and aboriginal trackers got off the trains. There were so many of them that it took two trains to get them all there.

We were now trapped in Mrs. Jones’ Glenrowan Inn along with a bunch of hostages.

We were equipped with armor that repelled bullets. The equipment was a little heavy. It weighed nearly 100 pounds but it covered us from the top of our heads to our knees.

Somehow the police knew about the armor. We had been testing it and were observed by a few locals as well as the fellow who made it for us. Someone had squealed on us; maybe it was Aaron Sherritt. We should have shot him a long time ago.

At ten paces the armor was very sufficient. We all had helmets. Joe Byrne’s was the best and all of us could see out of the helmets. We wore long coats reaching past our knees thinking that the police would not know we had armor.

The police and aboriginal trackers surrounded the Glenrowan Inn. One of them hollered a threat and told us to come out. I hollered an oath back to them and started shooting. The hostages were all screaming and hollering. It was very distracting.

The police opened fire and didn’t seem to care how much ammunition they were wasting. We had the hostages in the back room and told them to lay down. There was a substantial wall between the front room and the back room. We would fire out the front and then return to the back to reload our weapons. Bullets were flying all over and bouncing off our armor. Between the “twings” and “twangs” of the ricocheting bullets, the screaming of the hostages, and the breaking of glass the boys could hardly hear me shouting directions to them. The smoke became so thick that you could cut it with a knife. Of course I always enjoyed the smell of gunpowder so that was the only saving grace.

After about fifteen minutes of constant gunfire the police decided to stop shooting at us.

Mrs. Jones’ young boy had caught a bullet in the back. She stayed inside for some time although she wanted to take the boy out for help. She knew that the police would confuse her with one of us and take a shot at her. We saw the first light from sunup and advised her that it would probably be alright for her to take her son for help. I think she had gone insane by that time. She went outside, wandered around screaming nothing in particular and then went into the bush. She continued screaming and wandering around for some time. Soon she came back into the inn. One of the hostages talked her into taking the boy for help. She and the hostage were able to carry the boy outside. The police put him in a coach and he was taken to Wangaratta.

Some of the police officers who were wounded were put on railroad engine and taken back to Benalla for treatment. Onlookers and newspaper reporters started showing up. It was a wonder none of them were shot. We had some hostages that were shot by the police bullets.

Every once in a while the shooting would erupt again. I got hit but was able to move around. Steve Hart was slightly wounded and my brother Dan got hit bad. Joe Byrne was hit several times but his armor protected him.

The railroad engine that had taken some of the wounded police to Benalla returned. It was full of back-up police. I later learned they were called from all over the place. Some were from Benalla and others were from Wangaratta and Beechworth.

The newsmen kept good track of who arrived. They recorded that Superintendent Sadlier came from Benalla with nine more men and Sergeant Steele of Wangaratta brought six. The newspapers later said there were 30 more men just after sun-up.

Before daylight I left Joe Byrne in the inn and escaped into the brush. I layed still for a while but when the sun started coming up I moved to another spot. The pain made my thinking a little off. I had left my repeating rifle behind. All I had was my repeating pistol.

The plan was for Joe Byrne to send the women and children hostages out. While the police were busy with them I would attack the police from behind. It worked. The police became engrossed with the hostages thinking that my gang was hid among them.

In the early morning light I attacked the police from the rear.

All I had was my revolver. I used the trees for cover. The police returned fire.

I bought some time by moving from tree to tree. Three men attacked me at close quarters. My armor continued doing its job. They fell back in amazement. It wasn’t too long before someone realized there was no protection on the bottom part of my legs. It took two bullets before I dropped. One of them attempted to grab me but a drove him off with more gunfire. I had lost so much blood that I finally passed out. However, not before I hollered some of my best obscenities at the police.

A Sargent Steele got credit for my capture even though there wasn’t much “capturing” to be done.

I had been shot in the left foot, left leg, right hand, left arm, and twice in the groin. Every wound was were my armor failed to cover me; between the plates or in my shooting arm.

They took me to the railway station, and placed me in a guard’s van. Dr. Nicholson, of Benalla patched me up as good as he could. I guess they needed me alive to parade around as an example.

While they were busy with me my boys continued the gun fight. The female hostages that had been released told the police that Dan, Steve and Joe were still inside. Byrne got shot while drinking whisky at the bar. Steve and Dan kept shooting from the rear of the building most of the morning. Their armor continued to do the job it was designed for.

In the late morning a white flag was held out at the front door. My boys let 20 or 30 male hostages go. My brother Dan and Steve Hart continued watching the back door.

The police ordered all the hostages to lie down. They gave each one the once-over. Two brothers named McAuliffe were arrested as Kelly sympathizers.

In the middle of the afternoon a company of military men and a cannon was brought to the inn. They fired a few volleys but without results. Dan and Steve wouldn’t give up.

The police tried a new plan.

It was early afternoon and I was still laying in the railway station. I couldn’t hear any more shooting and asked what was happening. None of the dummies could hear my questions; maybe all that shooting effected their ears.

It really didn’t matter. I was looking at the station clock on the wall. It said “2pm.”

It was eerily silent for a gun battle. About forty-five minutes later I understood why. Several rounds of cannon fire were poured into the Glenrowan Inn. For sure my brother Dan and the boys were a bit concerned.

No small arms fire was returned from the inn. The police, being a cautious bunch, set fire to the inn. Another few rounds of cannon fire were sent tearing through the walls. Still no return fire.

My two sisters, Kate and Maggie, came to see me. The police asked them to go to the inn and talk the boys into giving up. The two girls told the police what they could do with that idea.

The inn became a roaring inferno. I could hear the timbers crackling while I lay in the train station. Maggie came back to tell me that the boys were dead and she could see them smoldering in the ruins. She was madder than a wombat.

All that was left standing of the hotel was the lamp-post and the signboard.

I made a few statements to the press. Some of them can be printed; others not. Here is one news article that is fairly accurate. Most of them were not.

“I was going down to meet the special train with some of my mates, and intended to rake it with shot; but it arrived before I expected, and I then returned to the hotel. I expected the train would go on, and I had the rails pulled up so that these %@$*&@ might be settled. I do not say what brought me to Glenrowan, but it seems much. Anyhow I could have got away last night, for I got into the bush with my grey mare, and lay there all night. But I wanted to see the thing end. In the first volley the police fired I was wounded on the left foot; soon afterwards I was shot through the left arm. I got these wounds in front of the house. I do not care what people say about Sergeant Kennedy’s death. I have made my statement of the affair, and if the public don’t believe me I can’t help it; but I am satisfied it is not true that Scanlan was shot kneeling. He never got off his horse. I fired three or four shots from the front of Jones’s hotel, but who I was firing at I do not know. I simply fired where I saw police. I escaped to the bush, and remained there overnight. I could have shot several constables if I liked. Two passed close to me. I could have shot them before they could shoot. I was a good distance away at one time, but came back. Why don’t the police use bullets instead of duck shot? I have got one charge of duck-shot in my leg. One policeman who was firing at me was a splendid shot, but I do not know his name. I daresay I would have done well to have ridden away on my grey mare. The bullets that struck my armor felt like blows from a man’s fist. I wanted to fire into the carriages, but the police started on us too quickly. I expected the police to come.”

Inspector Sadlier then asked me “You wanted, then, to kill the people in the train ?”

I answered “Yes, of course I did; God help them, but they would have got shot all the same. Would they not have tried to kill me?”

They had to carry me into the prison on a gurney.

When I got a little better they put me on trial; but that is another part of the story.

But before I go I have to show you what they did to poor Joe Byrne’s body.

Do you, any longer, wonder why we hated the police?

I feel so bad about Joe that I can’t even make a joke about “These Old Bones.

I wish the guy below would not look so happy. Maybe his is a constable.

On 26 June 1880 the Felons’ Apprehension Act 612 expired, and the gang’s outlaw status and their arrest warrants expired with it.

However, Dan and I had prior warrants that were still in effect. They still wanted to get us because of the attempted murder of Fitzpatrick. Steve Hart and Joe Byrne were free men. But, you know, the authorities could do whatever they wanted. The could re-issue the “Felons” act or any number of warrants. So Steve and Joe laid low along with Dan and I.

On a lazy Friday in June, 1880, Dan and Joe rode into the The Woolshed. Aaron Sherritt had a tiny farm in the valley. Aaron was no dummy. He had a great penchant for book-learning. On the other hand he could be treacherous. Joe Byrne’s younger sister said he was a traitor and stopped seeing him. He attempted to lure my sister Kate into some sort of romantic thing. He finally married a 15 year old girl and settled on his parents’ farm.

Aaron and my gang were former friends. We knew that he would be trouble because we heard about him talking to police. He wanted to know what he had to do to get some or all of the 8000 pound reward. Aaron and the police made a plan. The police were going to hide out in a cave by Byrne’s place.

That is when Joe Byrne’s sister realized he was a double spy.

We had used Aaron to give false information to the police regarding our whereabouts and plans. He had been doing a good job at that. But then he decided to become a turncoat and spy for the police.

Four policemen were stationed at the Sherritt house that Friday in June.

Joe Byrne nocked on Aarons door. Aaron opened it and Joe shot him on the spot.

The four policemen sent to protect Aaron hid under the bed until the next morning.

It is too bad that we had to do that. Aaron was a nice looking fellow but you can see that treachery in his eyes.

Well enough about Aaron. Can’t cry over spilled blood.

Right now the fellows at the Victoria Institute of Forensic Medicine want to put me back in the box for a little shut-eye. Ooops, that didn’t come out quite right. Lost my head on that one.

What I meant to say was; They want me to rest these weary bones.

Next time you come back I will tell you all the details about Glenrowan.

Following the killings of Kennedy, Scanlan and Lonigan we decided that bank robberies would not only be exciting but also profitable.

Euroa in Victoria and Jerilderie in New South Wales were selected for our visits. The strategy was to take hostages and rob the bank safes. The hostages gave us a little cover and in addition we also found that some of the hostages had quite a bit of money on them.

It was early in December of 1878. My gang and I invited ourselves into the home of Mr. Younghusband. It was at Gooram Gooram Gong Wool station on Faithful’s Creek.

We and our horses were hungry. We told the people that we wanted nothing more than that.

I don’t know why they didn’t believe us. Someone started a fuss and before you knew it we had to tie up a few of them. We decided to stay for a day or so while we worked out our plan.

Joe Byrne seemed the most capable to keep an eye on our hostages. He was a little off-center and that seemed to keep the prisoners in line. They were not too sure what he would do next.

My brother Dan and Steve Hart cut the telegraph wires. The telegraph operators were sure to know the lines were broken and would be sending out repairmen. So I followed behind them and chopped down the telegraph poles.

While we were in the middle of our work a few railway fellows saw our efforts and attempted to stop us. They joined the hostages at Younghusband’s homestead. Joe Byrne informed them that they had made a good choice seeing as they only had two; and the second one was rather permanent.

My brother Dan, Steve Hart and I took advantage of a traveling salesman. He had a nice wagon that would serve as a cover for what we had to do next. So we commandeered it and headed for the bank.

Steven Hart cuts a nice figure, doesn’t he?

That is a nice rendering of me also; but they made brother Dan look a little meaner than he really was. Those people from the illustrated papers sure had some imaginations.

By the time we reached the bank they were closing. I had a heck of a time getting the teller to open the door. He finally agreed to open up so I, as the make believe travelling salesman, could cash a check.

We tied up both tellers and the manager. You should have heard the names Mr. Scott, the manager, called the poor teller that opened the door. Sometimes I just don’t understand people. He was very mean to the teller but very nice to us.

Mr. Scott was released so that he could tell us where all the money was. He tried to talk us into accepting 700 pounds in paper but I knew he had more stashed away someplace. I threatened to shoot the teller. Once he realized that were serious he coughed up more paper and gold. We ended up with 1900 pounds of paper notes and 300 pounds worth of gold.

It was a profitable day.

It was only then that we realized we had more than three hostages on our hands. Mr. Scott’s wife, children and servants were all in the house next to the bank. We put Mrs. Scott and her troop in Mr. Scott’s carriage. The tellers and Mr. Scott went in the travelling salesman’s wagon with the gang and I.

We took them all to meet their fellow hostages at the Younghusband’s place.

Remember me telling you about the police picking on my family and friends? Well in January of 1879 the police arrested a bunch of them. Called them “sympathisers.” I thought we had laws against it but they held them for 90 days.

It was the best thing that ever happened. The government was accused of abuse by the same local ink merchants that had been printing bad stuff about me. Apparently they had changed their tune.

There were so many people disgusted about the government that I had no place finding homesteads to hide out on. Sympathy for us Irish-Australians being under the thumb of the English-Australian elite was growing.

Now that is all I have to say about bushranger banking in Euroa.

Jerilderie was quite different..

It was a nice February evening. Well – – – it was more like midnight. We had a great plan to avoid police intervention with our new bushranger banking system.

My brother Dan, Steve Hart and Joe Byrne decided to have a little fun at the Jerilderie police barracks. There were only two constables on duty that night; George Devine and Henry Richards.

Devine opened the door. I told him there was a big fight at the hotel. Devine looked like he may have recognized me. I pointed my two revolvers at him. Steve, Dan and Joe jumped on Devine and Richards. We locked them in the jail cell.

I don’t know why this always happened to us. There was a woman and children present. We put Mrs. Devine and children in the main room. I felt bad that we had wakened her. She was still in her night clothes. We made her round up all the guns and ammunition and bring it to us. We had a nice gathering and attempted a conversation in the main room. Mrs. Devine and the children weren’t too talkative being all tied and bound like that.

Joe and Steve put the horses in a stable. Each of them then went to different doors of the hotel and placed the two hotel accountants under surveillance of their pistols. By that time I was at the hotel bar keeping that area covered.

We determined who the bank manager was and I fetched him to the bank. He was a smart man and immediately opened the safes for us. We tied him up with the others.

We had about 2,000 pounds of the banks money.

It was time to do a little celebrating so we hit a few hotels and had some drinks. We treated everyone like we wanted to be treated. So we only took a few things from the patrons and let them keep their watches. I got a new saddle and the boys took the horses of the two constables.

We didn’t need any police reinforcements or other interlopers showing up so we raided the telegraph office also. By time we had the two telegraph operators locked up with the two constables the jail cell was full.

My boys must have been talking to the family while I was away. I learned later that someone had said that I came with the explicit intentions of shooting Constable Devine. They had poor Mrs. Devine in tears. She asked them, on her behalf, to talk to me so that I wouldn’t shoot him.

I never really planned to but I had given it some thought.

We left the Constables and the Devine family to head for the bush. We knew that they would eventually free themselves before they starved.

We were always nice that way.

Someone also blabbed that we were going to hit the town of Urana to rob the coach line and the bank. Once the constables were free from the jail cell they attempted to commandeer a coach in Jerilderie. They wanted the driver to take them to Urana.

He wouldn’t do it.

New South Wales and Victoria put their funds together and offered 8,000 pounds as a reward for my gang. We must have scared the hell out of them. I want to show you the new reward notice.

I’m really proud about that. It is really quite official. It has a lot of “whereas” and “above-named” type of words that give it a nice tone. I knew they would write about me.

In September 1877 I was arrested for riding a horse on a footpath and locked-up for the night.

In the morning I was escorted by four policemen. Four of them mind you. But I took flight and saw a shoemakers shop to hide in. The shoemaker helped the police to subdue me. Now that is five people. Five of them mind you. I wriggled around as they tried to put the wrist bracelets on me. I almost got away but my trousers were ripped so bad that they kept on tripping me up. Even with that I almost made it except for the dirty trick of Constable Lonigan. He grabbed me where no man should be grabbed. And then he squeezed until I submitted to the bracelets.

But I got even. Next time I ran into Lonigan I shot him – – – until he was dead.

Riding over a footpath wasn’t going to get me much jail time so they went after my friends.

The next month they arrested the Baumgarten brothers. They said that the boys were supplying stolen horses to me. Billy spent time in the Melbourne prison for it. That was the beginning of the law going after me through my friends and relatives; as you will soon see.

My dad died and my mom married a guy from California. He said his name was George King but we were never sure about that. My new father, my brother Dan and I made a little pocket money rustling cattle. It was a good life.

Now some people thought that the police station at Greta, Victoria needed a little help. Constable Alexander Fitzpatrick was ordered there for relief duty.

The good Constable Fitzpatrick rode to Benalla. For what purpose I have no idea. He claimed that he had been attacked by me, my brother Dan, my mother, my brother –in-law and a good friend Bricky Williamson.

Fitzpatrick told a magnificent lie. I think he was trying to establish his credentials at Greta. He claimed that all of us had revolvers. He added to the lie by saying that I had shot him in the left wrist. But it didn’t stop there. He also said that my mother had hit him on the helmet with a coal shovel.

Later he admitted that my mother did not have a gun. Bricky and my brother-in-law were arrested. Me and my brother Dan disappeared into the bush. My mother was taken into custody along with her baby.

Next time I saw Fitzpatrick I shot him – – – until he was dead.

Then came the time I shot Kennedy, Scanlan and Lonigan. It was another nice October. The year was 1878 and the place was Stringybark Creek. I clearly remember that because of the reward posters.

Here is the way I remember it.

They looked up, and saw us four armed bushrangers. Three of us were carrying guns. I had two rifles. They didn’t recognize my friends but one of them recognized me.

I shot three of them; one with extreme prejudice. That was Lonigan; the same Lonigan who had put the squeeze on me.

A fellow by the name of McIntyre got away and reported the incident. They gathered up a Sub-Inspector and eight townspeople. McIntyre led them back to the bodies.

The story that they tell is that it was two o’clock in the morning when they got to the scene. Now they also say that they only had one revolver and one gun. Does anyone really believe that a bunch of skimpily-armed people would go after four well-armed bushrangers in the middle of the night? I think not.

I stole Kennedy’s gold watch. What’s the use of a watch to a dead man?

Even though they had a reward out for me and my bushrangers they raised it to 500 pounds. Then they got the parliament of Victoria to pass a law that outlawed our gang. The law was called the “Felons Apprehension Act.”

I liked the sound of that. It had a nice ring to it. The law included a specification that whoever found us had no need to arrest us. They could shoot us on sight and thereby avoid the cost of a trial.

Later on I found out that the parliament had copied the law from New South Wales. It seems as though the Ben Hall Gang scared them as much as we did.

You remember Brave Ben Hall don’t you?

Then we did a few Bank robberies. I remember one in Euroa and one in Jerilderie. We can get into the details later.

People said I had no heart.

What did they know. They never lived in my boots. If they wanted to wait one hundred and fifty years to say “Ned Kelly has no heart” then it would be fine with me. The VIFS portrait of me clearly shows I am lacking a heart; and a head.

I think I will leave it right there. If you wish to hear more about me stop by in a day or two and we can talk.